


(if someone asks) this is where i'll be

by kuchi



Category: South Park
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuchi/pseuds/kuchi
Summary: Stan’s face is warm, open, never harsh when he’s like this.It’s the kind of expression that made Kyle look away when he was fifteen, startled and embarrassed by a sudden want he couldn’t explain, could barely bear to acknowledge. He doesn’t look away now.Late night distractions that Kyle thinks he should really leave for the morning.





	(if someone asks) this is where i'll be

It’s late, probably past midnight. Kyle clicks off his phone screen, a stream of Facebook posts, news headlines and Twitter updates still blurring sluggishly behind his eyelids.

He looks down beside himself, where Stan is already looking up at him, blinking gently in the comfortable silence. He’s lying on his stomach with his arms crossed on the bed as a makeshift pillow, since Kyle has been using both pillows to lean against the stiff headboard.

No complaint yet, but he should probably give Stan one.

Stan’s eyes teeter on the verge of closing. In a matter of seconds they are closed, his posture perfectly relaxed. Only his still shallow breathing betrays the fact that he’s awake. Kyle stares. And stares. _Lets_ himself stare openly, the novelty of the feeling somehow still making his heart thud.

He traces the features of Stan’s face in his head, slowly, each detail more than once.

Stan can go a few more minutes without a pillow. A small indulgence.

Sometimes in quiet instances like this, Kyle’s skin itches. Far too small to contain the lightness inside him. On his other side, he pinches the edge of the mattress between his fingers like an anchor.

He carefully reaches over Stan’s body, eyes scanning quickly to clear away what he can see on the bed: a controller, Stan’s phone, his own glasses. He scoops them up and drops them onto the desk beside him. There’s a bunch of things he could be doing right now: the steadily growing pile of dishes in the kitchen sink, or reading over Ike’s college application essays like he said he would, or replying to whatever work emails are sitting in his inbox (he never lets _those_ things pile up). Or hell, even just going straight to sleep. He has work in the morning.

But here’s Stan, halfway to sleep in his bed, in his room, in his apartment. Right in his space. Which reminds him -

No. Later. They have a blissful evening of video games and shitty Korean takeaway (Kyle’s favourite) and shittier reality TV behind them, he wants to maintain that mood. Languid, easy. He reaches his hand out despite himself.

He wants to touch Stan’s forehead. The middle, maybe, as if to reaffirm the evenness of his expression with his fingertips. Or down the slope of his nose, or up into the hairline. He wants to put his hands in the dark hair above it.

Kyle watches. Stan’s face is warm, open, never harsh when he’s like this. Kyle realises he remembers mostly from sleeping next to each other as kids. Even drunk or sick, hung over or heartbroken, the moment he let sleep wash over him, you could never tell. It’s the kind of expression that made Kyle look away when he was fifteen, startled and embarrassed by a sudden want he couldn’t explain, could barely bear to acknowledge. He doesn’t look away now.

He gets as far lightly pressing his palm to the side of Stan’s face, feeling heat and the barest trace of stubble, before Stan outdoes him in one swift motion - breaks his train of thought by rolling and ducking right into his lap. Kyle jerks out of his head and saves face with a questioning eyebrow.

“Don’t have a pillow,” Stan offers as a feeble explanation. Kyle nods, inching forward.

Stan smiles up at him, eyes hazy with sleep, and Kyle’s own face mirrors it automatically before he can help it. This was their stalemate for _weeks_ after the very first confession of sorts that they stumbled through (the _I want to if you want to_ and _okay let’s do this for real_ and so on). Only ridiculous and infectious smiles; the giddiness taut in the air, stretched until it’s released with a hundredth bout of unprompted giggling. Kyle likes late nights like this simply because that’s when the feeling resurfaces.

Besides giggling and making out and (awkward, amazing) sex, nothing much changed. It’s comforting actually, coming to realise just how much they were already _together_. That Kyle wasn’t imagining it. Which brings him to his next thought - it’s been what, three, four months? He would probably judge someone else in his situation, for pondering what he is now.

It doesn’t feel rushed, though. It feels like being home. He’s been awake for eighteen hours, he can excuse himself a cliche.

He gently slips a hand through Stan’s hair. Stan closes his eyes immediately and eases into it, as if it’s something he was expecting, and the idea of that makes Kyle’s heart jump into his throat. He continues the movement, putting pressure here and there but mostly just stroking lightly, along the side of his head. When Stan’s breathing slows and deepens, it feels like it’s taking the noise in Kyle’s head with it.

Stan mumbles, “That feels really good.”

“Yeah,” Kyle replies, and he doesn’t know whether he means it as a question or an affirmation. He trails his fingers up to the crown of Stan’s head, stays there for a while. After that, he switches it up by dragging slow scratches behind his ear. Stan makes a low noise of approval. He turns slightly onto his side as if to give Kyle better access, arm curling loosely by his waist.

A minute of silence, then, “Your hands are kind of cold.”

Kyle doesn’t to reply to that; only presses the width of his palm flat against Stan’s neck in retaliation for the comment. The surface is strong and flexible; hot with the pulsing of blood. His intention has kind of backfired: he feels naked with his hand resting there. Still, he can’t resist the urge to stay a moment longer; trail a couple of fingers up along Stan’s exposed neck.

Stan squirms at the cold touch and glares, oblivious.  

He makes no move to shrug away though, so Kyle drags his hand back to where it was, before the feeling rising in his chest becomes apparent in his face and elsewhere. He continues by Stan’s ear.

He’s definitely warmed up, though, which should please Stan.

“You know I'm not gonna be able to stay awake if you do that.”

“Not if you keep talking.” Kyle’s hoping that Stan understands his comment as an invitation to do just that. Fall asleep in his arms or something. It’s not too unusual.

Stan is the kind of person that can sleep nine hours straight when given the opportunity. Maybe it was excusable in school, with growth spurts and teenage emotional turmoil on top of three sports clubs a week, but now Kyle thinks he’s just being lazy. He can’t imagine it - late nights and early mornings are his own status quo. But then again, Stan thinks a mug of straight black coffee first thing every morning is pure punishment, so it’s safe to say their routines aren’t really comparable.

Stan breathes in deeply, eyes closed but a smile playing on his lips. “I'm actually asleep already.”

“OK, don't oversell it.”

“Mmm… nope.” He tilts his head like he’s seriously contemplating something, rumpling the fabric of Kyle’s shirt against his mussed hair. He sighs contently, closing his eyes again, “This is the best fucking feeling, I swear.”

“Really?” Kyle doesn’t know when Stan became inclined to overstatements, and he uselessly makes an effort to tamp down the warmth rising in his chest.

“Better than… ?” He starts, biting his lip to contain a smirk, and Stan grins back - so they’re on the same page. The sex page. Stan acts like he is mulling over it for a second.

“I dunno, maybe. In some ways, yeah,” he says finally, ignoring Kyle’s disbelieving expression. His face flushes a little, enough to tell Kyle that this is a genuine opinion.

“Huh,” Kyle says lightly - because he hasn’t really figured out what he can say to that. Stan glances at his furrowed brows, scratching his own forehead momentarily like he’s getting ready to explain himself.

And when he does, Kyle notices his playful tone shift - it’s somewhere more pensive. More personal. He feels like he’s listening in on something only meant for Stan and his own head.

“I don't know- good sex is good sex, but this is like... rare.”

He pauses, obviously trying for the right wording, but maybe too sleep-addled to find it. Kyle’s heart surges at the sight. He touches his fingertip lightly against an ear.

“I feel so calm,” Stan continues, voice noticeably quieter, and Kyle would be straining to listen if he was just inches further. He’s staring pointedly at Kyle’s sleeve, “I never feel so calm except when you…” he glances up a little, gesturing vaguely to Kyle’s hand resting in his hair, “... except when we do stuff like this.”

He pats the bed noncommittally. “Wish it could be all the time.”

Well. There’s a thought. Kyle starts, “You practically live here, dumbass -”

But Stan isn’t listening. He continues, “And it feels like it's something that's always just between us. And I don’t have to worry about any bullshit for a moment. Like it’s safe… you know?” He finishes a little hesitantly.

Kyle nods because it feels like his voice might disintegrate if he tried to use it. He leans down quickly and lets Stan cradle his head into a slow kiss. His ears burn.

Stan hums long and relaxed against him, the familiar act of kissing dissolving his nervous disposition almost instantly. The sound permeates like water in sand through Kyle’s head. Stan sighs against him, just shy of a moan.

They’re melting together, but Kyle extracts himself, not without considerable effort. It’s not the greatest position for his neck, and more importantly, it’s not the best way to _not_ get turned on, not when what he really wants is to be drowsy like Stan.  

He clears his throat. Stan smiles sleepily and sheepishly, obviously a little embarrassed by his own candidness, the way you can get only when half-asleep. It’s a good look on him, Kyle thinks suddenly, and tries to think another thought before it can tumble out of his mouth.

In this little corner of his world it feels like anything could tumble out of his mouth.

He brushes the hair out of Stan’s face, fingers losing their traction a little.

He traces his thumb along an eyebrow, then the other, smoothing them down. Sweeps the hair up from his forehead, carding his fingers through a few soft strands, before gently dragging his fingers back down. Stan remains very still.

The pads of Kyle’s fingers glide gently over an eyelid, then another. He finds the pulse there, like so many other places. His own body is awash with a pleasant tiredness and he lets himself feel it. It flutters up through his fingertips, as if it really was emanating from the pliant body in his lap. His thumbs move to the underside of Stan’s brow bone, pressing faintly along the curve.

A little more pressure there, and Stan really _does_ moan.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you like this better than sex.”

Stan doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “Shut up,” he says mildly.

Kyle wonders how else to get a reaction. He runs his fingertips right along the shell of an ear, pressing long and slow to avoid tickling, eliciting another hum of approval. He tugs the hair away gently from behind it, leaving a kiss against the short tufts of hair there. Stan pushes his head further in the hollow of his lap, and turns, wordlessly presenting the back of his neck.

A simple, silent request, and the sight of it makes Kyle’s stomach flip for some reason. Kyle presses his fingers into it, not softly, dragging them up and back again. Stan shakes off a shiver, body tightening and releasing. His shoulders have slackened considerably.

Kyle laughs quietly. “Oh my god, you’re like a... _dog_.”

“Dude, my head is pretty much in your crotch, so _not_ appropriate.”

Kyle can only cackle in response. Stan tugs his wrist back into that place almost automatically and he assents.

They stay like that for a while. Kyle watches the relaxed line of his body, the slow rise and fall of it with his breathing.

“Want you to stay here,” Stan quietly says after a few minutes, squeezing his waist just barely, his movement slow with sleep. Kyle blinks, jolts awake at the phrase - it’s a bucket of ice over his head, and it’s as if Stan came and plucked it right out of his mind, and how could he _know?_ \- before he realises that Stan is just referring to their position.

But the thrill lingers, and before he can stop it the words stumble out of his mouth, “I want _you_ to stay here.”

And it’s probably the worst timing to be making decisions like this, and he doesn't even know if Stan really heard him, or if either of them are truly awake enough for that conversation -

“I _am_ staying here,” comes the faintest mumble from his lap.

Kyle clears his throat, dives right in. “I mean permanently. Live with me, here.”

He counts the seconds as Stan turns onto his back.

“Really?” Stan says. A beaming smile is already threatening his sleepy expression, but it isn’t unsure and it isn’t surprised.

Kyle nods dumbly, grinning. So it was inevitable.

“When?”

“Whenever you want,” Kyle says - and Stan’s eyes are closed again but he cocoons his hands around Kyle's to show he's listening - “as soon as you want, really.”

Kyle takes his right hand away gently to put it in Stan’s hair again (for want of something to do), but he can’t make himself remove the other one where Stan is thumbing it slowly against his chest.

Stan nods slightly. “Talk tomorrow.”

Kyle nods back at Stan’s tempo, but his head is busy again, bursting with noise. With elation. It’s kind of stupid.

The only sliver of light in the room is from the desk lamp, currently faced to the wall to diminish its harshness. The subsumed glow of it pulls another layer of softness into Stan’s features, bathes his closed eyes and the gentle slope of his nose in fake moonlight. Kyle waits for Stan to say something else. He doesn’t.

Kyle has asked what he wanted to ask - and the other side of the conversation doesn’t feel so different. Nothing world-changing. And when he really thinks about it, why would it be? Every step has sort of been like this. A current of inevitable mutual acknowledgement, whether it loomed slow against the backdrop of a daily routine or fast within the heightened minutes of a conversation (alcohol-induced, or sleep-induced or not).

It’s how they’ve always been. Kyle leans back against the headboard. Stan shifts in his lap, the weight of him warm and heavy, and probably pinning Kyle from floating into the air.

 


End file.
